


Do You Want To Know A Secret (I’m In Love With You)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dialogue-Only, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Kilts, M/M, Unanticipated Proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:57:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James owns a kilt. Michael appreciates this fact. And reassures James of it, when James is feeling a little insecure. Contains lots of heavily implied sex, lots of comfort, and boys learning to communicate better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Want To Know A Secret (I’m In Love With You)

**Author's Note:**

> We needed more kilt!fic in this fandom, right? Anyway, this is partly the fault of garrideb and a wonderful James interview about his “kilt phase” and why he stopped. Title from the Beatles song of that name.

_night one:_

“James?”

“Michael?”

“Why've I never seen you in your kilt? I mean in person. Not in pictures. I mean—you know what I mean.”

“Why have you never—what? Oh. Oh, no. Have you been playing with the internet again? You’re not allowed near the internet.”

“The internet knows what I like. Seriously, you said—there was this interview with you, and you said you used to wear it all the time, but I’ve never seen you—why not?”

“Your laptop and I need to have a lengthy talk. And…I don’t know, I just grew up a bit, didn’t I? Besides, I got tired of people checking to see whether I was wearing anything underneath.”

“Were you?”

“Usually.”

“Usually…that means not always. You weren’t _always_ wearing anything underneath. That’s what that means, right?”

“I said usually. Didn’t the internet tell you about that, too?”

“I—James, are you actually angry, about this? I didn’t—I wouldn’t’ve said—are you?”

“No. Not really. I’m only…I thought I was over all that, all the trying-to-make-myself-memorable desperation. That I’d…figured out that I could just be me, and _be_ Scottish, and not, y’know, shout it from the rooftops. Or the waist down.”

“Your voice does that anyway.”

“You love my voice. You tell me so.”

“Yes, I do. I love you.”

“Oh, I know. I’m not angry. Mmm…all right, definitely not angry. You taste like tomatoes. And garlic.”

“It’s the pasta sauce. I was making us dinner.”

“You think about me in a kilt while you’re making dinner?”

“I…think about you _not_ in a kilt while I’m making dinner?”

“What about me not in pants? Or this shirt? It’s a silly shirt anyway. Snaps instead of buttons. See?”

“I think I love your shirt.”

“I think I love _you_.”

“You…think?”

“No. Sorry. Come here and kiss me again. Naked this time. I meant I _know_.”

 

_night two:_

“James…why are you in here with the laptop? Alone? In the dark?”

“It got dark?”

“It does that when you’re not paying attention. Were you looking at photos of yourself? You know you’re not supposed to be playing with the internet, either. Come on, give me that.”

“I have chubby legs.”

“What?”

“My calves. I have chubby calves. That’s not even manly. That’s just tragic.”

“You’re _really_ not supposed to be playing with the internet. We both know what happens when you do, and you should never have to feel—Anyway you have gorgeous legs. Spectacular legs. Beautiful legs.”

“Seriously, stop.”

“This is me appreciating your legs, James.”

“…that tickles, come on, stop—”

“ _Worshiping_ your legs.”

“Isn’t that blasphemous—hey!”

“Probably. Isn’t this better? No pants in the way.”

“You—mmm. You. Better. Yes.”

“That’s not a sentence, James.”

“You’re stopping to talk?”

“I’m stopping to tell you that you _are_ beautiful. Everything about you. Your legs, your calves…these…and this…oh, and this, obviously this…I love you. Every inch of you. I want to kiss you here…and here …and here, too. Because I want to. I want _you_. Understand?”

“I…you…I love you. How do you always know the right thing to say?”

“I don’t. I just keep talking. Until I can make you smile.”

“…you can make me smile _always_.”

“How about now?”

“I’m…I’m pretty sure always includes now, you know. Part of the definition of the word.”

“You _are_ smiling.”

“It’s still not going to be a proper sentence, but…yes, again. Better. With you.”

 

_night three:_

“Joy?”

“Michael? Oh my god did you finally _propose?!”_

“Don’t say that so loudly!”

“Oh…no, then. Come on, you’ve had the rings for over a month, you’re telling me you’ve still not found the right way to make an honest man of my brother—”

“It has to be _perfect!_ —Never mind, all right, that’s not why I called. Has James…did he…has he said anything to you?”

“About what? Is he okay?”

“I think—”

“Did you two have some sort of fight?”

“No! Or…he says not. I think…I don’t know. Has he called you?”

“He hasn’t, but if he had, and had asked me not to tell you, I wouldn’t tell you. And also if you hurt my big brother I will come over there and kick your ass, Michael Magneto Fassbender.”

“I’d deserve it. And you could. But he hasn’t called you?”

“No. It’s been a while, actually, I was starting to wonder. Try Gran?”

“I did. She wouldn’t tell me. So I know there is something. And I did hear him on the phone the other night, talking to her, but when I asked he wouldn’t say what it was about. He said she just called to say hi.”

“Our grandmother never just calls to say hi.”

“Exactly. And he did that little lip-lick thing, you know, the one he does when he’s nervous, that makes me want to kiss him because—”

“I do _not_ need the details, thank you. “

“Sorry.”

“Marry my brother already. But fix whatever this is first. Or I honestly will come down there.”

“I will. And…I will. I love him. I—if he calls, if he says anything to you, you don’t have to tell me, I wouldn’t ask you to—but can you tell him that? Please?”

“I would anyway. Because I know you do. I have to run, all right? Showtime. But I’ll be thinking about you.”

“Good luck.”

“Same to you.”

 

_night four:_

“James? This came for you…”

“Oh, good, I’ve been waiting for that all day—wait, why do you have it? You’re not supposed to know about this!”

“I’m not?”

“No. Were you stalking my delivery person?”

“No…I was already at the door when he pulled up…James, why are you getting packages? That I can’t know about?”

“Um…you can know. Just not yet. Why do you have a coffee cup? I could’ve made you some, you didn’t have to stop—”

“I bought you something?”

“You bought me a—that’s a salted caramel latte. Deliciously so. I love you. But you didn’t need to.”

“I think maybe I did. I love you, too. Are you all right? Are…we…all right?”

“Michael…we’re wonderful. I’m wonderful. And so’re you. You bought me coffee that tastes like autumn. Come here.”

“We’re still in the hallway—oh—oh, okay. In the hallway is good. And you’re very good. And—”

“And _we’re_ good. Entirely. Trust me.”

“I do—James—oh god I love you do that again with your fingers please—”

“That? By the way, are we still having dinner with Ian and Patrick tomorrow?”

“You’re asking me that _now_?”

“It has to do with your surprise. Yes, right?—and yes to this too?”

“Yes. And yes. And _yes_ —!”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“James…you… _entirely_ good.”

“I know.”

 

_night five:_

“Aren’t you ready yet?”

“No!”

“Can I come in?”

“Not yet!”

“It’s my bedroom too! And I need—”

“…you need your socks, you were going to say? Here.”

“…James—you—that’s— _kilt_.”

“This is definitely me in a kilt, yes…what do you think?”

“I…can’t think. No thoughts. Can I kiss you?”

“Mmm…yes. So you approve, then?”

“You can’t tell? Yes, wholeheartedly yes—”

“All right, yes, I can, er, feel how much you approve, but you might have to let me out of the bedroom sometime soon, we’re going to be late for dinner—”

“…dinner. James, are you—you’re wearing that? To dinner?”

“I thought I might, yes. I did call my grandmother and bribe her with good whisky to secretly pull it out of storage and ship it over here, after all.”

“That’s what—that’s why you—I love you. I just—I love you. So much. Don’t do this for me if you don’t want to—”

“Oh, I’m doing this because I want to. Also because you asked, of course. And because you make me smile and you bring me fabulous coffee. But…I think I’ve kind of missed it. And it’s missed being worn. Not going to run around in it all the time, but maybe on special occasions.”

“Is…this…a special occasion?”

“It is if we want it to be. Besides…I might’ve also worn, or, um, not worn, something else special, too.”

“ _Not_ worn—oh, my god.”

“Not the last time I checked. Good surprise, then?”

“Can I have sex with you now?”

“We’re going to be incredibly late…although that is a very convincing argument…and so is that…should I—”

“You’re leaving the kilt _on_ , James.”

“I am? Oh…all right, I am…Michael—”

“James…”

“Yes—!”

“ _Yes_.”

“…you’re paying to have this professionally cleaned.”

“Later. Once I can move. And then you can wear it again.”

“I can, hmm?”

“I mean—not if you don’t want—”

“I can, then. And…thank you. For—well. This. Everything. You know. I think the kilt thanks you, too. It enjoyed that.”

“I enjoy _you_. Forever. In or out of your kilt. And—oh, wait, hang on!”

“Where’re you going? I was comfortable with you there.”

“I was too—that’s sort of why—James, you—you said special occasions. And then you said thank you. To me. And you don’t have to—you never have to—you wore your kilt because I asked. You kiss me in the mornings when you’re half-asleep, and you tell me you love me when you know I need to hear it—you always know when I need to hear it—and just looking at you makes me want to smile, and if you’ll let me I’ll spend the rest of my life kissing your legs and trying to make you smile, too—”

“Oh my god are you _proposing to me?”_

“—I am, because you said special occasions, and I kept waiting for the perfect moment but I couldn’t pick one, I could never pick one, because they’re all perfect moments, they’re all special, every moment with you _is_ special. And I love you. Will you marry me?”

“You—Michael—I’m still wearing my kilt and no underpants and we’ve just had sex! And also yes!”

“…yes?”

“Completely, wonderfully, ecstatically yes.”

“Yes. You said yes.”

“Yes, I did. We’re getting married. We’re going to _be_ married. I want to be married to you. Every single perfect moment. I love you. Is that helping you believe it, yet? You still look kind of amazed.”

“I am. You did say yes. To me. James…I love you.”

“I know you do. Michael?”

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Yes, again—yes to everything—I was just wondering—”

“What?”

“Could we wear them to the wedding, if I bought you a kilt of your own?”


End file.
